


The Man Behind the Masks

by ACatWhoWrites



Category: C-Pop, Chinese Actor RPF, EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Deaf Character, Gen, Isolation, Psychological Horror, minor SuLay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-08 00:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21226763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACatWhoWrites/pseuds/ACatWhoWrites
Summary: Lu Han takes a job as caretaker to an invalid living in the country. If the isolation doesn’t kill him, his new boss might.





	The Man Behind the Masks

**Author's Note:**

> **Horror#:** A20  
**Title:** The Man Behind the Masks  
**Rating:** PG13/T  
**TW:** brief violence and blood, character death

When Lu Han had replied to an advertisement seeking a caretaker for a house and its owner, the response illustrated a modest, single-family house in a country village. The owner is largely confined indoors due to his health. There’s a gardener, so the grounds are maintained. Otherwise, there is no other mentioned staff.

He hires a car to take him from the city to the house. It’s a long drive but not unpleasant. It looks similar to the Chinese countryside, and Han isn’t sure what else he was expecting. Lots of sprawling land, tall grass, tiny birds, grasshoppers, and very rough roads. 

His driver is friendly and cheerfully declares he’s never been to the area Han is going but that he knows of the family.

“They’re well off, nice people. Grandfather Kim took over where his father left off, building the foundation for the grandkids to look after. They ship all kinds of things all over the world, now.”

“Do you know why the son lives in the country mansion?”

The driver shakes his head. “For his health, most likely. All of the Kims have rather poor health, because they work damn near constantly. I appreciate a man working for his livelihood and family, but you can’t enjoy it if you kill yourself!”

Very true.

The mansion sits at the end of the road. There is no discernible driveway; the road simply ends at heavy wooden gates that drivers need to radio to the house to open. Han’s driver fumbles with his introduction, but the man on the other end understands and, moments later, the gates open silently.

Han pays the driver after he unloads the luggage. As the car turns around and leaves, the gates close behind it, sealing Han in the courtyard. Stone paving stones sit in the ground, islands in the sea of green grass. They stagger throughout the courtyard, leading to the surrounding veranda and encircling a small pond and potted trees.

Across the yard, a man pulls weeds from beneath a set of steps. He ignores Han.

A door slides open, and Han greets the man who introduces himself as the owner, Kim Joonmyun. “Forgive Yixing. He’s not rude; he’s deaf.” He’s a polite young man with a charming smile and paleness that’s almost porcelain. He’s never worked a day out in the sun. “I didn’t know when you were arriving, or I’d have changed.” His dress is traditional—a long, loose top and loose pants that Han’s only seen in postcards and old newspaper photographs.

When Han shakes his hand, he suppresses a shiver. It feels like holding a block of ice, and the man doesn’t immediately release him.

“You’re more handsome, and younger, than I expected.”

“I’m older than I look, and I can’t help my good looks.” Han reclaims his hand

Joonmyun laughs. “So modest!” He steps aside and gestures to the house. “Shall I show you around? Leave your bags; Yixing will bring them later.”

He’s a gracious, attentive host. Every room has some history or story, but he seems to be able to read how interested Han actually is and adjusts his narration accordingly.

Like all mansions in the region, it’s a single story built in a large rectangle within rectangular walls. The center is open greenspace. Some have extensive gardens or elaborate fish ponds or even sandy zen rock gardens. Wood is the prevalent material, although the rooftops are all tiles.

The owner shows Han the detached outhouse with some apologies. He explains that while his grandfather embraced a lot of Western ideas, indoor plumbing wasn’t one of them. “He was a little odd in that sense,” Joonmyun chuckles fondly.

A parlor shows example of his grandfather’s Westernization. Everything is angular and Scandinavian and muted shades of gray. A sectional sofa takes up an entire corner of the room, curving around a low coffee table and reaching out to matching armchairs dressed in bold abstract patterns. Lamps are dynamic shapes and atomic sculptures topped with fiberglass parchment shades. A Victrola record player and radio combination sits atop another wooden table beside a metal drink cart on skinny wheels.

Compared to current trends, it’s somewhat utilitarian, but the most curious feature is a sculpture sitting on its own tiered shelf.

Entirely white, the sculpture is a life-sized bust of a woman. The eyes are closed, and her features are relaxed, as though sculpted while the model was asleep.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Joonmyun comments. “My mother. During the war, my grandfather and father made a lot of foreign friends and adopted customs that interested them. This was one of them. Since ancient times, some people created likenesses of their deceased relatives. They’re called death masks." His expression is soft, eyes looking somewhere far away as he recalls a fond memory. "They are mementos of the dead, but some were used by artists to create portraits. Most fascinating, to me," he smiles at Han, "is that we are sometimes able to identify portraits that were painted from death masks, because the weight of the plaster making the mold distorted facial characteristics.”

“She looks so young…”

“She was. She died giving birth to me.” Conversationally, he adds, “I have an earlier mask of hers, just after she’d died. Her expression shows such agony and sorrow… But my father had it redone, after her body had relaxed from rigor mortis.”

It’s creepy. Han wishes he’d never noticed the bust. Now, although there are no eyes, he feels as though he’s being watched.

Something brushes his pantleg, dragging it close to his leg, and he jumps.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s just my gardener’s cat. She’s harmless.” Joonmyun lifts her into her arms, where she goes limp and hangs bonelessly. “I’ll show you your room, now. It’s near mine. Yixing stays in the smaller building out back, behind the gardens.”

Han’s room is quaint but spacious. A closet slides open to reveal blankets, pillows, and a futon as well as additional space heater. He opens the outer door and is met with a view overlooking the courtyard.

“If you need anything, Yixing can drive you into town. We have working electricity and gas throughout, but there was only one phone installed. I never felt the need for more and rarely use the one we have.”

They briefly go over Han’s expected duties. From housework to getting tea or organizing notes, it sounds relatively simple. He’s seen most of it done before and is confident he can learn every task.

“There are also days I may require help in dressing or undressing.”

“Are you so ill?” He doesn’t mean to be unkind or morbidly curious, but the owner seems the image of health aside from the cold hands. Probably poor circulation.

Joonmyun waves a hand. “It comes and goes. Usually, it’s no issue at all, but should I require it, I will ask.”

“Of course.”

The walk through the house ends on the veranda. Joonmyun stands before the gardener, who notices his feet and looks up. Communicating in sign language, he must tell the man to take Han’s things inside, because he wipes his hands on his pants as he stands and leaves.

“Do you smoke, Lu Han ssi?” At the nod, he continues, “I ask that you use the ash trays inside. Feel free to bring them out, but do not leave cigarette butts lying around. Yixing works very hard to maintain the grounds.”

Han nods and promises to follow any house rules the man sets, watching the gardener peel off his gloves and wipe his hands on a rag. His total obliviousness to his surroundings is unnerving. “How long have you had him?”

“Years. We’ve known each other since we were teenagers. Aside from China, this house is the only home he’s known.” With a gracious smile, he looks up at the sky. “It should remain clear for a few days. You must be tired. Go to your room and rest. I won’t need anything until tomorrow.”

Han bows gratefully. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was until the man mentioned it. They walk back inside together, and Joonmyun leaves his side to enter the room beside Han’s bedroom, his study. It connects to his own bedroom. Between it and Han’s room is a wall of bookshelves.

Sloppily unfolding his futon, Han sprawls out with a heavy sigh.

He doesn’t expect to fall asleep, but he dozes with the lullaby of chirping birds and a bronze wind chime.

At dusk, he awakens suddenly. A shadow leaves his ceiling. Unease rests in his gut like a stone, but he can’t figure out why. Something he dreamed about, probably.

They eat dinner together. Han gives up on trying to follow the conversation between Joonmyun and Yixing and excuses himself after finishing a single helping of what’s actually a very delicious meal. If he’s expected to cook anything remotely similar, the household is going to be disappointed.

Some time later, Han sees Yixing crossing the courtyard towards his room. The cat joins him, trotting with her tail high. She prances in front of him, weaving circles one way and then the other before she’s lifted and goes limp against the gardener’s shoulder.

The animals like him. Joonmyun trusts him. Han would like to get along with everyone at the house or at least be cordial. He knows he isn’t being deliberately rude, but he doesn’t know how to talk to someone who can’t hear him.

It’s not a part of his job to be friends with the gardener, though. He supposes it’s not all that important.

After waking from a fitful sleep and taking a cold shower that drives up goosebumps like tacks along his skin, Han joins the household in the kitchen. Yixing is at the stove, making breakfast. Joonmyun isn’t awake, yet, or just hasn’t made an appearance yet.

Yixing notices his entrance and smiles with a small bow that Han returns. He wouldn’t know what to do even if he could offer his help, so he sits and runs his nails along the grain of the table.

He’s not usually an awkward person and doesn’t like the feeling. They’re both Chinese; they should have some form of bond just based on their origins.

Joonmyun enters looking impeccable and put together. He touches Yixing’s arm and leans around him, returning the gardener’s smile.

“Good morning, Yixing. Sleep well?” He doesn’t use his hands; they stay on Yixing’s arm and back. To Han’s greatest surprise, Yixing nods and speaks.

“Cat got restless during the night, but yes. Can I get you tea?” His voice is even and low, higher than a whisper but not as loud as general conversation.

Joonmyun thanks him and looks at Han with a benign grin. He seems to find Han’s staggered expression funny. “Would you like tea, as well?”

“No...thank you.” As though fearful to admit it aloud, he lowers his voice. “I-I didn’t know he could talk.”

“You never asked. He learned from his patient and very remarkable grandmother, who raised him. He speaks both Chinese and Korean, although it’s not entirely fluent. As I said earlier: He’s deaf, not dumb.” The man seems almost merry with Han's humiliation.

“I-I didn’t mean to assume—”

“Your opinion of him means nothing to me, and he’s quite used to such assumptions. No apology necessary.” He smiles again. It doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.

After he gets over his embarrassment and shame, Han makes an effort to greet Yixing and goes out of his way to talk to him. He’s very pleasant company and knows more about plants than Han knows about anything he can think of. Some of his behavior is strange. Han spots him on his hands and knees once, eating clover from the ground like a sheep would, evidently demonstrating to one of the young goats or perhaps wondering what the appeal of such a meal could be.

But they spend hours outside. Sometimes talking. Sometimes Han helps pull weeds from the garden or from beneath the porch. He develops blisters that burst and bleed; once they heal, they form rough calluses that he finds he really doesn’t mind.

The strangest thing about Yixing, aside from channeling his inner barnyard animal, is his relationship with Joonmyun. Han was told of their years of friendship and that Yixing has lived at the house for just as long, but rather than equals in friendship, Joonmyun seems to treat Yixing as more of a pet.

He’ll watch him work and interrupt for no reason at all, sending him to a task that could wait or Han could handle. He freely offers praise with touches more than words, squeezing a bicep or running his fingers through Yixing's damp hair. For his part, Yixing seems to enjoy it.

Then there are some nights.

After a day of scorching temperatures that keeps them all indoors in whatever shade and fanned breeze available, the heat breaks. Han expects to see Yixing outside, catching up on his chores. He’d taken the day off from anything more than bringing Joonmyun ice or tea and meals—which he has improved at making. The light wind carries more humidity, not at all getting rid of the stuffiness of the rooms he’s been trying to clean and air out.

Yet Yixing stays indoors. Han suggests that he might be sick from the heat, but Joonmyun assures him the gardener is fine and just resting. It’s rather dismissive, he thinks as he strips to his underwear. With the remaining sticky heat, he lays on the hardwood flooring rather than futon. It’s cool for a while, then he rolls over to find another cool spot.

The barest breeze curls in from the open door, carrying the promise of a cooler evening.

He’s nearly asleep when he hears a noise that makes him sit upright. Maybe he imagined it, or it came from outside.

Again, he hears it. More distinct.

A moan.

His heart quickens from anxious to embarrassed, and he grabs his pants from the trunk that doubles as a table. Grabbing his cigarettes, he opens the door leading outside before thinking better of it. A few other doors are open to the courtyard.

He walks down the hall to the rear doors and sits on the steps. The same uneven stones as in the courtyard congregate here, as well, paving a winding path through pretty gardens that surround a garden shed and small vegetable garden.

Lighting a cigarette, he catches the highlight of the flame on the engravings in the side of the lighter. It had belonged to his father, a gift from someone important once upon a time.

Something slinks from the shed. Two eyes glow in the moonlight, and the cat blinks at him.

Leaning forward, Han curls his fingers at the cat, keeping his other arm bent close.

It takes a couple minutes, but she gets close enough to sniff his fingers and rub her cheeks along them with throaty purrs.

“You and your master have that in common,” Han remarks. “Noisy critter.” She’s not so offended that she doesn’t invite herself onto his lap.

He falls asleep outside. It’s a warm night; the breeze is soothing, and the cat is a pleasant weight that doesn’t allow him to move. His cigarette burns itself out and falls from his fingers, harmlessly bouncing on a stone.

He dreams of the parlor. The unsettling mask watches him, but it’s changed. Something is different; he can’t tell why until the mouth moves and whispers to him.

_Leave._

By morning, it's again a mild day. Han wakes early, feeling as though he’d not slept at all, and takes Joonmyun tea. The outer door is open; Yixing is working at clearing some fallen leaves from the pond.

“I am sorry if we kept you up last night.”

Han doesn’t know what to say.

“Does it bother you?”

“It’s really none of my business.” Grown men can do whatever they please. They were very obviously enjoying themselves. He taps the ash from the end of his cigarette into a tray and pulls out his lighter when Joonmyun takes a cigarette for himself.

“You look so tired, though. It doesn’t suit you.”

The bruises on Yixing’s arms and neck don’t suit him, either. The teeth marks on his nape least of all.

"I'll be alright, sir."

Every week, someone delivers the mail. It’s Han’s job to meet them and collect it.

He’s reading a book he’s pulled from the collection in the parlor—purposefully keeping his back to the blanched mask—when a buzzer sounds. The front door.

A tall man smiles broadly when the door opens, but it falls a little when he sees Han, for some reason. He bows and digs a few letters and rolled newspaper from his bag. “Good morning. I have Kim ssi’s mail.”

“Thank you…” Han has a hand on the door to close it when the man makes a small noise. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I was just expecting my friend, Baekhyun. Is he here?” The name isn’t familiar; Han shakes his head and apologizes.

He watches the man as he leaves, until the cloud of dust from his motorcycle is obscured by the curve of the road and the trees.

Joonmyun is in his study, another spacious room between the bedrooms, with technical books of ships and sea laws and ocean biology. He spends most of his time here. Han will bring him tea or snacks and open the outer door for fresh air or more light. It’s always closed the next time he returns.

Knocking, Han slides open the door and bows. “Mail is here.”

The owner doesn’t look up from the sheaf of papers in his hand. He looks lost in thought; his glasses are slowly sliding down his nose. “Anything exciting?”

“Not to me.” He can’t read most of it. Setting the small pile on the corner of the table, he wonders if he should ask about the delivery man’s friend. He debates with himself long enough that Joonmyun asks if he’s alright.

“Something on your mind?”

“The man who delivered the mail mentioned someone who used to work here—Baekhyun. Do you know him?”

"Of course." Joonmyun removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, smoothing the indentations. “He left not too long ago. I don’t know where; there’s no forwarding address. It was rather sudden; I was sad to see him go. He had such lovely hands.”

Han nods and tucks his hands into his pockets. “Can I bring you anything else?” The owner shakes his head, and Han leaves.

He builds a routine within the first week or so. Joonmyun isn’t particularly fussy about anything except his tea. At first, Han thinks the previous caretaker must have been extremely lax and sloppy, but after walking into rooms he knows he’s cleaned and Joonmyun has been in, be decides it’s actually the owner who’s lax and sloppy.

Books never seem to find their way back to their shelves, clothing sprawls over any surface—available or not—dishes pile up on their trays.

Maybe he does it on purpose.

While cleaning the floor of the parlor, he senses someone watching and spies the owner over his shoulder.

“Did you need something?”

“No, just observing.” Smoke streams from his mouth; he takes his cigarette with his other hand. “You have strong arms.”

It’s a compliment.

A bold compliment, coming from his male employer.

Han laughs. “With how much scrubbing and carrying I’ve had to do, lately, I should soon be able to lift the house.”

“Yes," Joonmyun chuckles and shakes his head, "I am sorry. Housekeeping has never been my strong point. I don’t see the sense in putting something away when I’m just going to use it again.”

It’s an understandable explanation. Coming from a wealthy family, no one would expect him to pick up after himself. Han was the same way, maybe even slightly neurotic with how his room had to be and what was allowed on his bed.

He announces he'll let the floor dry before polishing it, leaving it barely half washed to find another part of the house to occupy himself with. Someplace away from the owner's watchful eyes.

The remark on his appearance and features is one of many. Joonmyun is rife with off-color compliments that Han can only laugh at or accept with false grace.

Worse than the comments are the touches. No matter the time of day, their dress, the weather, or activity, Joonmyun’s flesh is chilled to the point Han expects frostbite from the brush of his fingers.

While boiling water for tea one miserably rainy morning, he hears someone enter the kitchen, and it must be Joonmyun; he often shuffles, then cool fingers brush aside the hair sitting on Han’s neck. He shivers and ducks his shoulders. The hand goes away.

“Please don’t.” To not seem rude, he mentions the owner’s cold, unpleasant hands.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just been noticing that your hair has gotten longer. I could cut it for you.”

“I don’t mind it. Thank you, though. Your tea is ready, now.”

After a bath, he’s sitting outside his room, letting his hair drip dry on a towel around his neck, when Joonmyun appears with some poetry about the clouds slicing across the pale throat of the moon.

“It’s meant as a compliment to beauty, but it is rather morbid, isn’t it?”

If the comments aren’t enough, the owner seems to haunt the house. He rarely leaves, even to walk in the garden. Instead, he stays indoors and just looks from a distance.

Han’s walked miles from the house, skirting civilization on the horizon. There isn’t much else to do but work or lie around the house. Joonmyun works or manages to disappear to somewhere. Yixing is something of a friend, but he unintentionally ignores Han, sometimes. He almost doesn’t count as company.

The surrounding area is very pretty, tranquil, and undisturbed. Perfect for a man trying to heal and regain his health or a man trying to escape notice. There’s a wild, unchecked freedom being so far from any city or village.

As well as loneliness.

The one phone in the house is in Joonmyun’s study, on his desk. Half the time, it serves as a stand for his glasses. Lifting the receiver, there’s no dial tone.

“It’s not plugged in.” Silent as a ghost, Joonmyun glides into the study. “It becomes a greater nuisance than help. The cord is in this drawer.” He opens a shallow drawer and lifts the thin wire.

Inexplicably, Han feels it tightening around his throat, held fast by icy hands behind him.

“Did you need to call someone?”

“No.” He can breathe again. “I was checking utilities to be sure they’re working, or I would have gone into town to hire a repairman.”

The owner shuts the drawer and sits at his desk. Han leaves, shuddering at the eyes on his back.

After a while of life at the secluded house, forming a new routine and habits, Han assumes he’ll relax into his new role and go about life as usual.

But he just cannot sleep.

Rather, he sleeps, but more often than not he’s woken by nightmares or feels completely unrested the next morning. There’s always a sense of dread and urgency that he doesn’t understand, that hadn't been there before, and he isn't sure when exactly it developed, but it's fully settled in his ribs and shakes when near the owner and shivers when alone. Joonmyun isn’t unkind; he doesn’t scold Han for being late or for spilling the tea or for anything, really.

He just can’t shake the feeling. It's not something easily put into words, either, but he tries to tell the only other person in the house. Yixing is kind and offers to pick herbs for a tea to help him relax. It smells too bitter to drink.

So Han ignores it. As long as he is physically sleeping, there can’t be anything wrong.

There’s something more to it, however.

For no other reason aside from _something_ telling him to _wake up, please wake up_, he wakes up in the very early morning. Sunlight is just starting to color the sky and chase the violet of the night.

Joonmyun is beside him. Lounging almost comfortably, like a cat watching her kittens. His chest is pale like a snow-capped mountain and just as cold.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” he says softly, a bare hint of mirth coloring his voice. Perhaps it is humorous, a grown man reacting so vividly to nightmares.

The dread and shaky anxiety still rattle in Han's veins. He’s sticky with drying sweat. There are tears on his cheeks, which he scrubs away when the owner reaches for him.

Han apologizes and assures the owner he’s fine. Just a bad dream.

When Joonmyun leaves, Han counts the receding footsteps and listens for the slide of the bedroom door before closing his eyes again. He’s not sure when it started, but he finally knows that the unsettling feeling he gets when around the owner is more than a nervous respect for the person providing his livelihood. It’s fear.

Sleep returns as birds begin to stir. Han covers his head with a pillow. When he finally rolls off his futon, it’s closer to noon.

He gets dressed and is ready to find his employer to apologize for his tardiness when he feels a breeze just over his feet.

He follows the breeze to his partly-open closet door. 

He never leaves it open.

Shouldering it aside, he notices his things are slightly out of place. Beneath it all is a trap door, which he expects will lead to the crawl space beneath the house but instead opens into a pitch black hole.

A ladder leads down into the dark. His lighter barely illuminates the space; he can’t see the bottom. The rungs are cleaner than he expects; usually, spiders have staked cellars and corners as their real estate. He's cleaned many cobwebs away in the main areas of the house, already.

The easiest course of action is to find Joonmyun or Yixing and ask about the ladder beneath his room, but something tells him to look into it himself, and he dresses silently. He doesn’t fully trust Joonmyun.

Carefully holding his lighter between two fingers, he feels his way down the ladder. It’s not a long descent, but it’s immediately unsettling.

Before and behind him is a tunnel. No light shines from either end. It's a tall enough cavern that he can stand upright without touching the ceiling, and his fingers don't touch the sides when he stretches his arms outwards. 

Figuring it’s a horse apiece, he goes forward.

After a while of walking, his light doesn’t reach the walls at all; it’s opened into some sort of a room. Wires snake along the ceiling overhead, and he follows them to a light switch.

A cellar of sorts. It looks much more lived in and cared for than he expects.

Curiosity calls him further into the basement. It's one large room, sectioned off by shelves and furniture to make a sitting area facing a far wall covered with a curtain. If he can trust his instincts, it's the wall facing the front gate and the road.

The cord for the curtains is worn and smooth, pulling easily and noiselessly.

A shelf sits against the wall, shiny with glass. Han finds a switch by the curtain cord and flips it on.

Blue light erupts from the wall, revealing modified aquarium tanks of clear liquid. Rather than fish or plantlife, each tank has a disembodied face resting on a plaster cast. Subjectively, they're beautiful faces, but they're contorted and twisted into masks of abject horror and misery. Mouths hang open in silent screams. Eyes are shut tight so lashes are trapped between folds of flesh. Han can hear their shrieks and see their tears in his head, from his nightmares.

“What do you think?” 

Han jumps, ramming his shoulder into the corner of the shelf. It doesn't move; it's bolted to the ceiling, floor, and wall, but the liquid ripples and distorts the masks to calm countenance.

Joonmyun smiles, eyebrows raised curiously. “You've found my collection.”

“Very interesting, sir.” A bad feeling wrapped in a horrible feeling closes over his heart. He turns so his back is against the glass. “They’re like your mother’s?”

“Similar. She helped inspire my hobby. You see, I'm fascinated with beauty, particularly of men. Masculine bravado, machismo is fine, well, and good, but there’s something so touching about man’s delicacy, and it’s often only seen in their most quiet moments.”

“How did you find men willing to have their mask made?”

Joonmyun grins sheepishly and shakes his head. “Like an artist, I just want to preserve beautiful things.

“The process is very simple, you know:" Like a professor before a lecture hall of students, the owner holds his wrist behind his back and paces, recalling his speech as he looks to the ceiling. Han matches his pace, moving in time with his strides so he never gets closer. "After death, a cast of wax or plaster is made of the corpse's face. They just layer it right on the face, caressing and preserving every feature. They first gained notoriety in Egypt, the most recognizable belonging to King Tut. It would allow the person's spirit to find his or her body in the afterlife. In some African tribes, the death mask is worn to gain the power from the dead individual. It wasn’t until the Middle Ages that the masks became a way of preservation rather than spiritual commodity. This was before photography; it gave people an opportunity to see famous men and women from the past.

“You can tell if someone was dead when the cast was taken by how sunken the eyes are, how gaping the mouth is, or how much eyebrow remains in the plaster after it was pulled off the person's face. The more hairs, the more likely dead, because a live person would complain.” Han has a feeling none of the masks behind him complained. They were never given the chance.

“I said my mother influenced my hobby, but my grandfather actually introduced me to it. As a young man, he disguised himself as a Japanese scholar and traveled throughout Europe. He came upon a unique, budding science that tried to read the lumps and bumps on a person’s head like a gypsy reads the lines of your palm. This science preserved their subjects with plaster casts, and he brought that idea back, with his foreign wife, after the occupation ended.

“Grandpa made a death mask of his first wife, who died before ever having children. She was still quite young, and he had it painted in her likeness and fit with a wig that was so lifelike—I was terrified she was going to start speaking to me," his eyes are bright, nearly manic, "so I destroyed it and blamed it on the carelessness of some hired staff. She was a total stranger to me, anyway, unlike my mother.”

His speech is informative and almost jovial, as though recounting a favorite childhood outing. The casts covered in flesh are just attractive trophies like a champion sportsman would collect. Han hopes this is another bad dream, because it’s too unbelievable.

Joonmyun continues, unaware of his audience’s horror. “It's just so much better than a photograph or painted portrait and lasts longer than the real thing, leaving an enduring legacy. Something for the future to keep alive in stories. It’s how we can survive eternity. Have you ever wanted to live forever? To grace the world with your beauty for longer than any mortal body can exist? That’s my gift.”

Han steps backward. His heel catches the wide hem of his pantleg, and he stumbles, catching himself on a rickety table and sending yutnori sticks clattering to the floor.

“You’re unusually clumsy today, Han. Do you feel alright?” He produces a knife from behind his back. It’s a military knife, with a blade nearly as long as his hand—that’s all Han knows aside from _it’ll hurt if it touches me_.

The only way out is the way he came. Joonmyun intentionally stands between him and it.

Grabbing the closest object—a short table lamp—Han chucks it at Joonmyun and leaps over the sofa. 

Showing greater athleticism than Han expects, Joonmyun catches him by the arm and spins him around, but Han brings up a fist and delivers a glancing blow to the chin that loosens the grip on him and gives him a chance to wrench his arm free. He throws out a leg and kicks the owner down, stumbling before finding his feet and running.

The lights go out.

With his hands out to feel his way, Han can’t tell where he’s going and trips over something. He lands on his hands and knees—hard. His palms are raw and sting, but he doesn’t feel them so much as the fierce, frigid grip around his ankle.

Rolling onto his back, he catches some part of his assailant with his knee and an arm with his hands, but he’s not so blessed as to have caught the hand with the knife.

It drives into his gut. He’s not sure how far, but it feels like a butterfly being pinned to a hobbyist's board.

Joonmyun pulls out and stabs again, up into the ribs, and Han's legs fall against his desperate will to _run_.

The weight leaves him. He could get up, if only he had the strength, but Han is too weak, and it's too wet to gain any purchase to lift himself from the floor.

Lights flood the cavern again, blurry luminous discs. “You really are so handsome,” Joonmyun murmurs, crouching beside him. His hanbok is filthy with dust and blood. The red over his hands is like rose petals on fresh snow. Delicate fingers brush Han’s hair from his forehead. “I'll take such good care of you.” 

He leaves again and returns with a small bucket. His sleeves are rolled up, and he sits on Lu Han's hips. Carefully, he cups a hand into the bucket, filling it with white plaster, and smooths it across Lu Han's cheek. He covers his jaw and chin, adding more and more plaster. He coats Han's eyes and fills his nostrils. Han can't breathe.

As he works, he talks, ignorant or uncaring that Han can’t reply. “They say that stabbing is a simulation of sexual penetration. I never felt that way until I met you. You really are special.”

Hours seem to pass. Han gasps through his mouth until a strong hand holds it shut while plaster is smeared over his lips.

A distant buzzing, like summer cicadas, fills his ears.

Joonmyun stops.

The weight lifts from Han’s body.

He lies still, until the buzzing stops, until he can’t hold his breath anymore, then he tears into the plaster with his fingernails.

He stays on his back, feeling the strange warmth of the muddy mixture of dirt and blood against his back.

Finally, he rolls into his front, urging himself onto his hands and knees...to sit back on his heels...to bring up one leg and push off his knee...he's standing but swaying and falls to his knees again. It takes a while before he can will himself to try again, driven by urgent whispers.

Bloodied clothing leads to the tunnel, passed the ladder leading up to his bedroom. Climbing takes forever; he has to stop and try to catch his blood before it all spills out.

Anywhere away from the mad owner is safe. He catches his breath and listens.

There are voices somewhere in the house. Joonmyun’s and someone else—not Yixing.

Yixing.

He spends most of the day in the gardens, now. Birds and rabbits have been eating the tomato plants, so he wanted to build some sort of open-air enclosure. If he can just get to the garden, he’ll be safe. No sane man would never kill someone with witnesses.

If only Joonmyun was sane.

Somehow, he coaxes himself up the ladder and drags himself from his closet. The door is still open; the cat is waking up on his folded futon. She bolts at the sight of him, or maybe the smell.

He can only sit for what seems like years. Maybe he passes out.

The fuzzy silence motivates him to move.

There’s no more talking.

Han struggles to his feet and keeps one hand out for balance and to catch him against the wall; the other stays curled over his torso. His elbow and forearm cover the worst of the wounds, he hopes.

He falls at the bottom of the stairs and crawls for a few feet before getting back to his feet and staggering towards the garden of vibrant vegetables. A crow caws, coaxing him to come along. Keep walking. Almost safe. It hops to a post and ruffles it feathers, looking left and right.

Han can only look ahead. If he looks back, he’s afraid he’ll still be at the bottom of the stairs, bleeding out on the grass. _Forward,_ he urges himself. _One foot...the other…_

Yixing is bent over in the garden. Even if Han yells, he won’t be heard.

He falls against a wheelbarrow of composted dirt. It shuffles into the post the crow perches on, spooking it. Rather than up, it dives at Yixing’s back. The gardener swats back at it, scowling in confusion before catching movement and seeing the deathly pale caretaker.

If he was in any better condition, he might be concerned about the dirt on Yixing’s hands, but he gratefully falls into his arms. The man’s hand shakes when he notices the smear of blood, and he shakes Han to keep him awake, wanting some explanation.

“_Xiānshēng_.”

Without reply, Yixing picks up Han like he would stack a sack of rice and carries him into his little one-room house. It’s wired for electricity and has a small stove, heater, and lamps along the wall. His futon is folded sloppily, and he kicks at it until it flattens enough for him to set Han down.

The crow cries from the small veranda and flies away with a strong sense of self-preservation.

Yixing presses some shirts onto Han’s wounds, covers them with Han’s hands, and leaves. The door closes behind him, and Han hears a soft greeting.

Joonmyun.

He probably followed the trail of blood and is asking Yixing where his prey is. Lifting himself up on his elbow, he can just see out the window.

Even if he could read what they’re saying, the signs seem to blur together. Joonmyun catches Yixnig’s wrist and points out the blood. The gardener shrugs and replies something casual, making a slicing motion across his palm.

It’s not what Joonmyun wants to hear, or it’s a blatant lie; he strikes Yixing across the face with such force he drops to the ground.

Stepping over him, Joonmyun stalks to the veranda, and Han drops down, eyes passing over everything inside, but there’s nowhere to hide; he’s completely exposed and just doesn’t have the will to run anymore.

He thinks about his family. His dad, arrested for his affiliation with a tyrant. His mom, who closed herself away to hide from the shame. His friends who helped him find underground passage out of the country. The beloved pets and familiar companionship he left behind. All their effort is wasted. It’s a poor way to thank their sacrificing their own safety.

Waiting for the door to open and face his death, Han prays for the first time in years.

A grunt follows a succession of dull thuds. Han’s foggy mind conjures up beach holidays and beating watermelon open with sticks.

The quiet is deafening. He can’t even hear his heart in his ears.

The door slides open—

Yixing ducks inside. On the grass, Han can see Joonmyun’s prone body. The shovel that had been in the wheelbarrow is beside him, bent.

The gardener drops to his knees on the futon and presses Han’s hands more firmly over his wounds. “I’m going to call for help.”

Han clutches his arm with as much strength as he can muster. “Don’t leave me with him.” Moving at all is a bad idea; he’s already lost so much blood, but Yixing seems to understand some of what’s happened and tucks his arms as carefully as he can beneath Han’s back and legs.

They purposely don’t look down as they pass the owner. Han tucks his chin to his chest and lets his forehead rock along Yixing’s shoulder.

There’s a whisper of thanks on the breeze, and Han closes his eyes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 70s, so please imagine and take delight in Lu Han wearing bell bottoms and tight T-shirts.
> 
> There are four tunnels, large enough for vehicles, between North Korea and South Korea. At least one is even a tourist attraction. Discoveries of the tunnels began in the 70s. Some believe there could be as many as 20, leading into South Korea. The ones found so far haven't reached too far into the south, but they were my inspiration for the tunnel beneath the house.
> 
> Chairman Mao's regime got rid of anyone who did not support him and his ideas, so after his death in the mid-70s, many brilliant and capable party leaders, intellectuals, various professionals were in prison or working in factories, mines, and fields. The idea was Lu Han escaped from that and went to South Korea, which starting to take off, economically, and Park Chunghee passed a law prohibiting the use of Chinese hanja in favor of Korean hangul, which improved literacy rates. Ignore the labor camps where the homeless went and the prison time if you disagreed with the dictator. 
> 
> Since the 50s, after the war, South Korea began westernizing as they rebuilt. The 60s and 70s saw a lot of Western trends. Traditional clothing, music, and culture were largely ignored except on holidays. So Joonmyun wearing a hanbok here is a little strange.


End file.
